The Cat's Meow
by Le Cadavre Coupable
Summary: The backstory of 'The Cat', the notorious serial murderer, back in her prime. From Peter F. Hamilton's Judas Unchained. New chaps coming very soon! PLEASE REVIEW!
1. Chapter 1

A frightened voice cut through the midnight blackness of the lagoons, words echoing off of the eerily tilted trees.

"Grace? Grace, are you there?" A young man stumbled through a tall thicket of bushes, a dim flashlight gripped tightly in his hand. "Okay, Grace, this isn't funny anymore." There was no answer. "Come on, you're starting to scare me."

The bush he had just freed himself of rustled behind him. The boy whirled his flashlight around, only to see the waving outline of the thorn bushes. He approached slowly, edging forward with his foot first. The branches slowed, then stopped, leaving no evidence of their movement. The boy halted as well, and strained to hear anything that might clear his mind. A crunch behind him brought him whipping around again. This time, the narrow beam of light caught the gnarled trunk of a willow, its leaves waving in the damp breeze. He was caught in their rhythmic spell for a moment, but was brought back to his senses by yet another noise to his right.

The flashlight illuminated a short, slight girl with jet-black hair. She held her arm in front of her face, warding off the light as if it was the blinding rays of the sun itself. When her companion lowered the beam, she did likewise with her arm, but kept her eyes tightly shut. When she finally opened them, all that could be seen were the odd gold flecks of her irises.

"Jesus, Paul! I keep telling you, don't shine that thing in my face. You know I've got sensitive eyes." She put her hands on her hips, focusing right on his face even through the darkness. "Can't a girl tend to a little private business without getting the damn spotlight?"

Paul deflated, his shoulders drooping in relief. "Sorry, Grace. I just got worried."

"I was gone for a couple minutes!"

He held up his hands in defense. "I know, I know. But it felt like something was wrong. I don't like this place. Everything just seems dead or dying. It's creepy."

A sigh escaped Grace's mouth, and she stared at him disdainfully. "It's just a lagoon. You've lived around here your whole life, and you're still scared of some trees and bushes. I swear, Paul. Sometimes you can be so pathetic." She brightened. "But there are many ways of curing cowardice. Many _very_ enjoyable ways."

Seeing the suggestive smile on her face, Paul stood up straighter. "What do you have in mind?"

Grace backed up a step, and beckoned to Paul before she ran off into the underbrush. Paul, a stupid grin on his face, chased after her.

He suspected nothing as he passed through the wall of bushes. He stopped for a moment to try and catch a glimpse of Grace. It was just long enough.

A blur of dark motion leapt from an overhanging branch, colliding with Paul. A glint of metal disappeared into his head, and he fell to the ground, where he gurgled and rolled over.

Paul's flashlight bounced on the ground and lodged in a tree root, and silhouetted his attacker. The dim form took the shape of Grace, with small, sharp claws extended form under her fingernails, her lips curled up in a bemused smirk. Her eyes, slitted like a cats', were fully opened, drinking in the sparse light.

"Grace? Wha-what's going on?"

Grace gave him a withering glare, and bared her teeth in a feral snarl. "Grace? God, I _hate_ that name." She grinned wickedly, not unlike she had just seconds before. "For the moment, you can call me Norah. But I doubt you'll even have that much time."

True to her prediction, Paul slumped back to the ground. His last words were a whisper, accompanied by blood bubbling out of the corners of his mouth.

"Bitch."

Grace threw her head back and laughed, the kind of sound some would call a cackle. "Honey, that's gotta be the least imaginative thing anyone's ever called me."


	2. Chapter 2

Heron

"Holy Shit!"

Deputy Sheriff Heron Marque whirled his head around, just as a junior detective fell backwards out of a stand of brush, his hand over his mouth. The teenager shuffled backwards with his legs and free hand, swearing. Heron pulled him to his feet, and shook him.

"What?" He just stood there. "Rodriguez! Speak to me, kid!" Still nothing.

Heron turned to another nearby officer, grabbed his coffee, and threw it in Rodriguez's face.

"Holy Shit!" He said, shaking his head and brushing off the scalding liquid.

Heron took a step back. "Yeah, we know! Now, if you wouldn't mind, could you tell me what it is that's got you so worked up?"

The kid sobered up a bit at his calm voice. "Okay, chief. I was checking the bushes over there," he motioned towards where he had been moments before, "Like you told me to. I was feeling around the ground, and I felt something. I pulled back the branches, and, _Jesu Christae_..." He seemed to fade away again. Heron shook him back into focus.

"And?"

"Chief, there's a body down there."

Heron turned away, and reached into his pocket. He turned back around, with a cigarette between his lips.

"You've done well, kid. Go ahead back to the patrol cars. You're done for the day."

Rodriguez relaxed visibly, but shivered on his slow way back to the road.

Heron lit up, and ambled over to the bushes Rodriguez had indicated. In his surprise, the young officer had knocked a good number of leaves to the ground, leaving a clear view of a pale hand. A quick kick brought the victim's head into view, along with what was left of his neck.

The ground was stained black from the young man's knees up, with an impressive spray reaching almost to a small stream, easily fifteen feet away.

"Well, Cat, you've outdone yourself this time." Heron whispered to himself.

Another junior detective walked up beside him. "You think it's him again, sir?"

"Shows all the usual details. Victim's a nobody, just some random local kid. Done with a knife, none too neatly. Also, the splatter pattern matches an attack from above, so our little acrobat must have been perched on that branch up there." Heron waved his hand upwards, his eyes never leaving the ground. "And of course, we're the last to know about the damn thing."

The younger man swore under his breath. "Goddamn message boards."

"He's got quite a fan base, especially now that he tells them his exploits first. The crime scene's never clean, 'cause his "fans" always try to clean up after him. Not that there's much left to clean, that is."

"He sure is professional, boss."

Heron flicked his shortened cigarette angrily into the bushes. "Damn straight. He's about the only person who takes the time to be truly thorough these days."

Angry voices could be heard as a large white truck pulled up behind the line of police cars. It bore the olive wreath emblem of the Department of Internal Investigations.

"Speaking of waste..."

Riot-armored officers , all wielding overly large assault rifles, stormed out of the back and quickly established a perimeter. Their leader, bearing the stripes of a Captain Inspector, stepped up to Heron, barely missing his feet. Neither moved a muscle.

Heron broke the silence. "Nice entrance, Jackass. But don't you think a full armored platoon is overkill?"

The DII leader flicked up his visor, revealing a long-faced man not much older than Heron. "First of all, that's _Captain Inspector_ Jackass to you. Second, we were told there were followers of the killer around."

"What, you mean the fans?" Heron asked, gesturing to a handful of young people lounging around the cop cars. "They're nothing more than star-struck children, Derrick. They couldn't even find the body."

"How such a gruesome criminal can attract so much positive attention is beyond me. I'm glad they didn't interfere, otherwise I'd have to arrest them all as accomplices."

"You know that'll do no good." Heron chuckled dryly. "But I guess that never stopped you before. Gotten that gang of preteens to talk yet?"

"No, they've been quite uncooperative."

"Well excuse me, _sir_, if a field trip group that happened to blunder over a dead body doesn't know anything about the murder. I wonder how _that_ interrogation session went over with their parents. 'Now don't worry Mrs. Smith, it's just like a sleep-over, but with bright lights and cigarette burns. I promise Johnny will have a _great_ time.'"

Derrick swept Heron aside angrily and stepped towards the body. "Joke all you want, _Deputy_ Sheriff Marque, but it's our investigation now." He popped a round into the chamber of his weapon. "And don't make my team forcefully remove you this time. It's _such_ a waste of manpower, and I'm sure your precinct can't afford many more medical bills."

Heron clenched his fists. "Maybe if your department would come down off their pedestal and let some _real_ cops do the work, I wouldn't have to break my knuckles on one of your men's faces."

Derrick sighed, and snapped his fingers. The DII troops all lifted their guns to bear on the smaller local police contingent.

Heron's mind was already calculating the time necessary to hit Derrick, take his rifle, and open fire before he realized the hopelessness of the situation. He raised a hand, getting his men's attention.

"Still relying on your little leash-buddies, Derrick? Well, can't say I'm surprised. Let's go, guys. We should leave them some privacy for their "_Departmental Investigation_", or whatever they're calling it these days."

He walked briskly towards the squad cars, the junior detectives in tow. When he sat heavily in the driver's seat of his car, one of the teenage fans approached his window.

"Hey man, you just gonna leave the scene to those DII bastards?"

Heron smiled as he looked up at the young man's freckled face. "Son, how long have you been following The Cat?"

"Three years straight, every site. Cleaned each one 'til it shined."

Heron fumbled around in his pocket, eventually taking out a tiny digital camera. He popped out both memory chips, and flicked one to the startled teen.

"Then you know me better than that."


	3. Chapter 3

Norah

Norah stretched luxuriously as she sat up in bed, reveling in the popping of every joint in her body. The previous night's activity had brought an excellent feeling of release, after almost a month without a killing. She licked her fingers, savoring the lingering taste of Paul's blood. It had been _so_ long.

She jumped as the door to her room swung open, but relaxed when a familiar, smiling face popped through the doorway.

Although fully dressed, Norah faked a look of terror, then threw the covers over her head. "Russell! Go away, I'm not decent."

"Norah, you've _got_ to be kidding me." Russell pulled away the sheets and hauled her to her feet. "It's ten o'clock, and I've got to get to work. But first, I need to make sure _you_ get out of bed."

"And why is that?"

He pushed her out the door and into a dimly lit hallway. "Because you need to be a functioning member of society. You lounge around all day, then disappear until morning. If you keep this up, you'll never find yourself a nice boy and settle down."

Norah grabbed a pipe sticking out of the wall and stopped her forced progress, before whirling on Russell. "_Settle down!_ You _do_ realize who you're talking to, don't you? What'll I do, be a nice, docile housewife?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of 'getting your lazy ass out of my house'. I can barely feed myself, Norah, let alone you."

She would not be deterred. "Russell, you and I both know that I eat out every night. I never even touch your food."

"Yeah, well then what about space? I have to sleep on the couch, while you get the only bed I own!"

"Russell, we can switch places any time you want. You know I'd be fine anywhere you put me." She paused, then crossed her arms angrily. "I think you just want to get rid of me."

"Well, yes. I can't be there for you all the time, and when you get out into the world again, I don't want you to end up like you did last time. I'm afraid you'll never learn your lesson, if I keep coddling you."

"Who are you, my father? I was doing just fine on my own."

"Norah, you fell against my door, starving, pale, and with enough drugs in your system to kill a horse. I had to hide you from the police after they found out you killed some kid. God, someone saw you _licking_ the blood off the ground."

Norah turned away from him, but he pulled her back with a hand on her shoulder.

"You've finally gotten better, but now you're getting used to having someone look after you. You have to learn to be safe on your own. I don't want you to drop that low again."

She slapped his hand away and walked to the door, now genuinely angry. "Nothing's changed."

"Yes it has, Norah, and you know it. Would you rather still be out on the streets, stuck in the gutter with a needle in your arm and nothing in your pockets?"

Norah stopped, her hand on the doorknob. She spoke quietly, without turning to face Russell. "You know, I never asked for someone to save my _eternal soul_." She said it mockingly. "I don't need some knight in shining armor to come riding in to rescue me, whenever I'm off the straight and narrow."

Russell approached her, his hand outstretched. "But you need one. You've been a mess for as long as I've known you, because no one ever showed you any compassion, any decency. I've tried to help the best I can, but I can't do anything if you refuse to change."

She opened the door, and stepped out. With the door half-closed behind her, she turned around and stared deeply into Russell's eyes.

"Maybe I don't want to be saved."


End file.
